


To be a man

by Baryshnikov



Series: Spoiled Fruit [8]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Study, Discussions on Masculinity, Dom/sub Undertones, Gender Identity, Light Bondage, M/M, Mild Intimacy Kink, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Power Play, Rope Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:36:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23919145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: Tom had no choice but to take it.OrHaving finally granted Harry's wish to let him tie him up, Tom now takes his time to contemplate what this development means for his identity.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Series: Spoiled Fruit [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1616770
Comments: 2
Kudos: 109





	To be a man

What was it to be a man?

It was a question that Tom hadn’t particularly considered before—mostly because he hadn’t _needed_ to—a man was merely something he was. But now… well, somehow being tied up in exactly way that he was didn’t quite square with the ideal form of masculinity that Tom had witnessed his entire life. Harry had been fastidious for the first time in his life when he tied Tom’s arms and wrists tightly behind his back, before tying his ankles to the legs of the armchair with similar knots; his legs spread wide enough to be shameful. 

So, what was it to be a man? 

What was the defining feature that existed, which captured the very essences of being a man, but did not translate into a representation of womanhood too? For all biological purposes were women not men without the additional extremities, and were men not women with altered anatomy? And yet, that non-distinction built into inherent similarities did not seem to satisfy the question. For there was and always would be something quite distinct about the quality of being a man that was not captured in womanhood, and so too, undoubtedly, were there subtleties of experience that differentiated the female existence, even if Tom was not able to decipher them himself. 

Tom attempted to shift his position. It was unsuccessful, in part, because of his bindings, and the rest of the blame lay with Harry, who sat on top of him, and smiling with a touch too much satisfaction because this was Harry’s dream. Tom was just indulging it.  
“You look nice all tied up,” Harry murmured, straightening Tom’s collar, before trailing both hands over opposite shoulders, tracing the bones with the tips of his fingers in an unsubtle attempt to soothe him. “Like a present.”

Without consciously thinking, Tom felt his jaw tighten and his glare deepen; he ignored that particular comment, not least because the thought of being wrapped up like a present with a pretty little bow was, at best, distasteful and at worst, nauseating. Being a pretty little present meant that he lacked the control that had been instilled as a masculine necessity inside him, in much the same way that stubbornness was infused into Harry’s very being. 

Not to mention, being wrapped up for someone else’s consumption robbed him of any sense of _power_ , and power was important to him—both on a personal level and in the wider context of his own masculinity. After all, not too long ago, it had been power that defined the masculine identity, and even now it seemed to have a distinct weight behind it. But that being said, power alone, either in a man’s physical strength or in the extent of his dominion, wasn’t enough anymore to demarcate a man. 

Of course, there were other characteristics alongside power that men were supposed to embody and ones that they were not; weakness belonged, firmly, in the latter category. But there was an undeniable weakness in having his hands constrained behind his back and a rope biting into his wrists—because Harry had insisted on using rope—and not just ordinary rope, but one with the sting of Harry’s magic imbued into every fibre. 

He could do nothing but sit still and muse on the fact that men were supposed to be powerful and strong and in-control—at least, all the men that Tom had known, or admired, or even loathed, fitted that typology—and yet, right now, as Tom thought about those characteristics, found himself lacking in all of them. Right at this moment, tied up on the armchair with Harry’s weight holding him still, he was not powerful, or strong, or even remotely in control of anything. 

Yet, he did not feel completely _out of control_ either. 

He could still move, albeit restrictively; just the tips of his fingers scratching against the leather of the chair, and he could still use his magic, though, again, without the use of his wand or his hands that too was somewhat restricted—but the _potential_ was still there. 

Tom shifted again, back a little this time, pressing himself into the cool leather of the armchair—even if it crushed his hands—because it was a solid, tangible, thing that gave him a structure to support himself with. Harry shifted too, hardly odd given how connected they were with Harry spread over his lap, or perhaps this time, it was Tom pinned down under Harry’s weight. The exact semantics didn’t matter though, what mattered was that Tom couldn’t move and that he’d agreed—unwisely perhaps—to such a limitation. 

Of course, at the time of the agreement, Harry’s eyes had been wide and that excited little smile he always got was spread over his mouth, and Tom _had_ been willing—or as willing as he was ever going to be to giving up his autonomy, even only temporarily—but now… well, now the reality was sinking in. 

And he really couldn’t move. 

Tom tried again to move his limbs, but his hands were so thoroughly bound behind his back, and his legs were just as skilfully attached to the legs of the chair that he could barely manage a few centimetres before the equilibrium was reached, whereby the exertions weren’t worth the results. Apparently, his tension was noticeable too because Harry was leaning closer and tracing his fingers down between his shoulder blades.

“Just relax,” Harry murmured as he buried his head into the crook of Tom’s neck; the soft, scratchy, curls of his hair rubbing against Tom’s neck until the skin was agitated and Tom was even more bothered than before because… because… this didn’t feel quite _right_ , but nor did it feel _wrong_. It just felt… odd. Strange. Different. And, for once, Tom just didn’t know how to feel.

Even as Harry kissed at the corner of his jaw, sliding his tongue over the bone and pressing his lips against it for long, lingering kisses that made Tom’s heart ache and his stomach clench down on nothing, in particular, he still twitched. Moving and straining against the ropes like an animal confined to a too small a cage. 

“I said _relax_ ,” Harry repeated, both of his hands on the base of Tom’s neck and looking straight into his eyes. His gaze lingering on Tom’s irises for a moment, just as Tom watched Harry’s, before Harry made a decision and without warning leant in for a kiss. It wasn’t much of a thing, just the soft press of lips to lips; gentle and reassuring and exactly what Tom needed.

So, when Harry pulled away to fiddle at Tom’s collar instead, Tom found himself chasing the kiss; shifting himself forward, and clenching the muscles in his arm, and craning his neck. It must have made a desperate picture because Harry was smiling.

“Do you want something, Tom?” he said, again toying with Tom’s collar, his fingers pushing at the button casually before finally undoing it; he looked up expectedly. Tom’s stomach dropped, he’d never had to _ask_ for what he wanted before—usually, he just took it—but now, Harry’s fingers were resting on the lines of his neck, and his lips were parted so delectably and he was waiting for Tom to tell him what he wanted. 

Tom swallowed, hard and heavy. “I want you to kiss me again.” 

Harry smiled again, wider this time, and leaned in closer, his hand resting on Tom’s shoulder and his eyes wandering. “You want me to kiss you?” Harry said, leaning so intolerably close that there was barely a part of them that _wasn’t_ touching. “How do you want me to do that, Tom?” he continued, “like this?” Hardly before he’d finished speaking the words, Harry was kissing him right on the centre of his lips, and it was soft and chaste and nice.

But not _enough_.

“Or, maybe, you want something like _this_ ,” Harry said with a knowing sparkle in his eyes. This time tasting his mouth like he was a connoisseur of fine wine; moving his lips agonisingly slowly as he brushed against Tom’s own, before raising his hands to cup Tom’s face with a painful degree of intimacy and sliding his tongue into Tom’s mouth, and kissing him that much fuller and that much deeper. The gentleness of Harry’s palms against his jaw and his fingers pressed into his cheeks, combined with the warmth and pressure of his body made Tom squirm—a flush tinging his ears, and spilling down his face and neck until he was stained pink, and itching to do _something_. 

_That_ was exactly what he wanted, and Tom wanted it again and again and again. Tom wanted to have Harry’s hair twined around his fingers, and he wanted to pull and push and _control_ Harry like he usually did—just guiding his mouth back against Tom’s own and making proper use of it. But he _couldn’t_ , and that was frustrating, though, it wasn’t quite as disconcerting as it had been in the beginning. 

In fact, the biggest problem was that, like this, Tom just felt so soft and mouldable and—dare he say— _helpless_ , though what was stranger was that he didn’t really mind—at least, not as much as he should have done. Despite every instinct he’d cultivated over the decades, he _trusted_ Harry not to do anything… unexpected.

“I think I like you like this,” Harry said softly, interrupting his thoughts, as he ran two fingers down Tom’s cheek, following the natural contours of his face to his lips, and tracing them slowly with the tips of his blunt nails. “I think I like being in control of you, Tom.”

“You think you’re in control?” he quipped back, though Tom knew as well as anyone, that he didn’t have the slightest semblance of physical control. 

Harry certainly knew it. “Oh, Tom,” he said with a low laugh, “I _know_ I am,” he continued, as he pressed his thumb into the centre of Tom’s lips “and you want to know why?”

Despite himself, Tom nodded.

“Because I can do whatever I like and you just have to _take it_ , don’t you?” Harry said, slowly grinding hips as he trailed his fingers lightly down the front of Tom’s shirt, catching on every button as he went and undoing enough that Tom could feel the coolness of the room against his skin. “And you take it so fucking well, Tom,” he added, nipping at the lobe of Tom’s ear in such a way that made Tom suck oxygen through his teeth and scrunch his eyes tight shut because, however frustrating it was, he _couldn’t_ do anything else. 

What made it so much worse though, wasn’t that it was just talk—Tom _knew_ that—but the fact that it was true; just _knowing_ that he _had_ to take it made something hot squeeze inside Tom’s stomach, mushing his insides to a pulp even as he tried to feign indifference. This was about as far from the traditional understanding of masculinity as he could physically get, and he liked it; he actually _liked_ it.

Did that make him weak? 

Did it make him pathetic and unmasculine to like being tied up—to enjoy the freedom that a total lack of control embodied? Because like this, Tom didn’t have to worry about image and decency; he didn’t have to curate every movement to convey the exact expression he wanted. He could just focus on Harry—on the earthy smell of his cologne mixed with the thin film of sweat that collected at his neck whenever he got hot and bothered. 

Along a similar vein, in this state, Tom could allow himself to be open—vulnerable almost—in a way he never had been before because there was someone there to catch him if he fell. And anyway, it was almost nice to be so meticulously taken apart, because it gave him time to think on Harry’s every action, from the way he ran his lips down the crest of his throat, lingering on the pulse, to the heaviness of his palms against his waist—the fingers carelessly dipping beneath his waistband. 

Tom could still have power like this. 

After all, it was _him_ that made Harry’s eyes blow so wide, and it was _him_ that made Harry’s fingers tremble as they attempted to undo his shirt—stuttering at every button. So, despite losing the ability to move, Tom was still powerful. All that had changed was that this power was no longer rooted in his physical movements or prowess: be it his hands resting on Harry’s thighs, or holding him down by the back of his neck, instead, his power was now ingrained into his very physicality itself.

No longer did he have to play games with his hands—running them over Harry’s shoulders and down his back and between his legs, until he cracked. Now the war of attraction was waged with his brow and his lashes and his mouth; in one single shift of his body, Tom had the capability to make someone as powerful as Harry just _melt_ , and that was without even considering the capacity of his tongue to persuade. 

So maybe it wasn’t _too_ bad. For, when he considered it, he didn’t need magic or strength or power to get what he wanted, and if he didn’t need them to do that, then they didn’t make up an integral part of his identity, not as a human, and not as a man.

And all this theorising was so wonderfully demonstrated by the simple act of running his tongue over his lower lip until it was slicked with saliva and then exhaling slowly and deeply and with a carefully curated desperation that felt a little too real on the back of his throat. He couldn’t move his arms, so Tom moved his head; tilting it back and smiling just so. 

Harry stopped and visibly swallowed; his eyes lingering for too long on Tom’s mouth.

Tom dipped his head and took his time to look at Harry again. Lesser men might have claimed that such coy displays and emotional dramatics were feminine, womanly, pursuits that were so utterly beneath them. But just because a pursuit was womanly in its origins, did that make it unavailable for mutation and evolution? Once, perhaps, Tom might have thought so, but now that he was being rewarded for his efforts with Harry’s mouth against his neck, and his fingers dipping lower, he was inclined to believe otherwise. 

“What do you want, Tom?” he said or rather mumbled into the skin on his neck, though the edge of suspicion was still obvious in his tone. As though Harry had somehow managed to pick up on the minuscule change to Tom’s behaviour—but then again, maybe, it was just the fact he wasn’t actively struggling any more that warranted suspicion. 

Tom swallowed and looked up at Harry. “I want you…” he said slowly, savouring each word, “…to get on your knees, Harry,”

For a moment, Harry was silent, though the flush on the highs of his cheeks spoke volumes without him ever having to open his mouth, and that was quite the power rush all on its own. Because, Tom might have been tied to a chair, but he could still get under Harry’s skin and make him flustered, no matter how much physical control Harry had. 

Feeling more confident now, Tom continued, “ _please_ , Harry,” he murmured breathlessly, each letter sticking to the back of his throat and making the completed word sound so _needy_ , but that wasn’t bad, was it? A man, that is a man who was unafraid of himself, should be able to express his appreciations however he saw fit, and if that was by all but moaning Harry’s name because Tom couldn’t do anything else, then so be it. 

Anyway, Harry certainly didn’t seem to mind the sound of his name stuck on Tom’s tongue because he was pressing closer again, his hand now actively playing with the leather of his belt—unclicking the metal and sliding it open. 

So, Tom dropped his head back against the lip of the armchair, biting his lower lip raw as Harry worked his way down between his legs. Maybe masculinity wasn’t too far removed from this state after all; maybe, to be a man was to use the art of emotions effectively because they were surprisingly useful; maybe, it was to be unashamed in the act of love; maybe, to be a man was to merely be a little flexible sometimes.

**Author's Note:**

> I imagine this probably could have been better, and at some point, I'll take the time to write a decent bondage fic.


End file.
